


Sigur

by ClockworkCourier



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood and Gore, Camping, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Sex, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Original Character(s), Pansexual Character, Porn With Plot, Slow Burn, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4083265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sigyn Wolf-Caller just wanted a pretty average life; hunting, gutting animals, selling off their parts, and living off the land until Sovngarde called. But then she was kidnapped by bandits, witnessed a dragon sacking Helgen, and got abruptly yanked onto a very bizarre life path. </p><p>Filling Breezehome with cheese wheels is just a perk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sigur

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic isn't meant to be a serious project, but more like a form of stress relief from my job. It's fun to write, even if it is pretty cheesy and typical. Y'know, Dragonborn gal goes on misadventures, gets the guy, yada yada. Whatever, I'm entertained. I just figured there might be someone else out there that's entertained, too. Hello, person who I'm talking about. You're gorgeous and I hope you have a nice day.
> 
> Anyway, this fic is made with the alternate start mod in mind. My particular Dragonborn started out in a cave full of bandits, so there we have it. There might be mentions of more mods, but they're all very world-friendly and are the ones I think enhance the world a bit. Like bath houses. For fun.
> 
> So yes, enjoy. I'm enjoying it. I love mindless fluffiness and warrior queen babes.

Realistically, when Sigyn Wolf-Caller had privately thought that her life could afford to be a little more exciting, she hadn’t expected that anyone was listening. Apparently, _every_ god, goddess, and Daedric prince must have had an ear out and all attempted to bring excitement to her life at the same time. It was how she ended up in some musty cave near Helgen, shivering, her nose running, and frankly being annoyed at the way the ropes around her wrists felt.  
  
She was angry, understandably so. However, her anger went two ways. On one hand, she was angry at the bandits for kidnapping her at all. It was rude, and the timing was awful. She had been so close to bagging the last elk she would need before selling it, and they decided to raid her camp and haul her off instead. Secondly, she was angry at herself for being absolute shit with a dagger and preferring to use the bow. She couldn’t gut a bandit like a deer, at least not while he had an angry-looking mace in one hand. So she stewed in sheer fury on the cave floor, trying to blow a hole through the back of one bandit’s head using only the power of her glare.  
  
“What should we do with her?” one of them was asking. He looked like a typical oaf, far too big for the tiny furs he was wearing, more plush than muscle, with a hammer on his back that was blunted on one end from careless use. He picked at his teeth with the shard of a broken bone while one of his partners, a reedy-sounding twig of a man, spat on the ground.  
  
“Sell her off, of course,” he replied, his voice grating on her by the first word. “I know at least one man in Markarth that wouldn’t mind that.”  
  
The fact they seemed to be planning on bartering her like a piece of meat bothered her more than being kidnapped did. She supposed it gave her a little sympathy for the animals she bagged.  
  
The oaf didn’t seem to agree. He snorted loudly and spat as well. Sigyn wondered if all bandits just couldn’t keep their spit in their mouth. “No, not in Skyrim. She’s a ranger, ain’t she? Someone’s gonna come lookin’ for her.”  
  
Reed-man made some strained noise before throwing his hands in the air in irritation. “It was Olli’s idea to grab her! I didn’t know she was a ranger. He just says to me, ‘Fryn, take a look at this girl!’ and that was it!”  
  
There might have been some comfort in knowing that her profession served as a threat in some form. She might not have been the best ranger, as she was far better at hunting than anything else her job entailed, but it carried some weight. Though that seemed to matter little if they were in fact going to take her out of Skyrim.  
  
“Maybe to an Orc stronghold,” the oaf suggested thoughtfully. “No one’ll hear about her again if we take her there.”  
  
_That_ made Sigyn shudder.  
  
“No, _no,_ you idiot,” reed-man retorted, swatting the oaf on the arm. “We want _money,_ not threats. I’d like to keep my head if I can.”  
  
That gave Sigyn a far better idea than seething in a cave that was soon going to be flooded with bandit spit. She sat up a little higher, chin tilted up. “You’re going to regret kidnapping me anyway,” she said, mustering every last bit of confidence left in her. “As soon as someone finds out I’m gone, you’re not going to keep your head even if you wanted to.”  
  
Reed-man sneered at her and stomped over, not walking very well in what she assumed were stolen steel boots. The oaf just glanced over at her with a glazed expression before turning his attention to the cooking pot near them.  
  
“You talk too much for fresh meat,” reed-man said with a grin, leaning over enough that she could smell the horrific combination of bad ale and apple cabbage soup on his breath. A few teeth were missing, and what remained were nearly rotted down to stubs. He kept on, and she idly wondered if she’d faint from the stench before he could finish. “Ain’t no one gonna care about you enough to want me dead. They can’t find us out here!”  
  
Despite the Arkay-blessed death stench of his breath, Sigyn kept a straight face and even quirked an eyebrow. “You’re confident for a condemned man,” she said easily.  
  
“Yeah? And who do you think you are?” he asked, the sneer coming back so she could see the cluster of warts at one corner of his mouth. That raised some questions.  
  
But regardless of the proximity and the threat of fainting, Sigyn had him right where she wanted him, at least for now. “Niece of the Jarl of Morthal,” she said, hoping to any deity the lie seemed legitimate. She had only met Jarl Ravencrone once in her life, but it was enough to know that the old woman could strike fear into the cold, withered heart of a draugr if she wanted.  
  
She saw the hesitation and momentary panic on reed-man’s face, and the oaf fleetingly looked over with a worried expression. As quickly as he could, reed-man set his sneer back in place, although it wasn’t as strong or cocky as it was before.  
  
“Nice try, your _ladyship._ You had all of ten septims on you and a hide to sell. You hardly have enough to trick us into thinking you were a ranger at all.”  
  
He was just making it easier. “You think my aunt would give me anything? You must not know her very well,” she replied, settling up against a cracked wooden beam holding the cave ceiling up. “She cares for her family, but certainly not enough to spoil us. She expects hard work. It’s the way of Morthal, you know.”  
  
Doubt shadowed both of her captor’s faces, and it was clear they weren’t doubting her as much as they were doubting themselves.  
  
“M-maybe we could ransom her back to her aunt?” the oaf suggested, sounding wonderfully nervous.  
  
“She’d rather kill you than pay you,” Sigyn replied brightly, tapping her feet against the packed dirt. “Morthal seems to be the place to die, aside from Falkreath.”  
  
Images of frosty swamps and deathbells must have swam through their vision, because reed-man quickly hurried over to the oaf and started talking low enough that Sigyn could hardly hear them. She caught a few words, like ‘oh _shit_ ’ and ‘what if she’s telling the truth’. It was comforting, and it almost made the musty cave bearable.  
  
Before they seemed to reach the climax of their deliberation, they were interrupted by the most ungodly noise Sigyn ever had the misfortune to hear. It was like a roar of some fierce beast, a sabrecat perhaps, but so deafeningly loud that it made the cave shake and bits of dirt and rock fall on them. Sigyn ducked her head as another roar shook the very ground and a few stray pebbles hit her on the back of the head. When she looked up, the oaf and reed-man were as pale as ghosts, and reed-man quickly thumped the oaf on the back.  
  
“Go see what that was!” he commanded, although he sounded completely terrified.  
  
The oaf looked like getting into a wrestling match with a horker seemed to be a better idea. But to his credit, despite being a filthy, disgusting bandit, he did take hesitant steps to the mouth of the cave.  
  
“Faster, you lard!”  
  
Sigyn did feel momentarily bad for the oaf, but not very much. He turned out of their sight for a moment while they remained in a tense silence, permeated only by the soft crackle of the cooking fire. Seconds later, the oaf literally ran back, chest heaving, eyes wide, looking as if he was going to be violently ill.  
  
“ _Dragon,_ ” was all he said.  
  
Reed-man made a strangled sound before shaking his head. “Couldn’t be. They don’t exist.”  
  
“It’s true! It was big and black and _terrible,_ Fryn!” He gestured wildly to the mouth of the cave. “Go see for yourself!”  
  
Fryn swallowed hard and forced himself to roll his eyes like the oaf had said that a giant mudcrab had descended upon Skyrim with a vengeance. Sigyn supposed it was a matter of bolstering confidence. He followed the oaf’s path and was gone for a few moments before returning, much less confident and more like he had wet himself.  
  
“We need to leave,” he said, his voice so strained that he seemed likely to faint just from attempting to speak.  
  
They quickly set to work throwing a few things into a leather bag, like potatoes and a dagger. Sigyn frowned as she realized they weren’t making a single move to do anything about her, not even hauling her along. The oaf slung his bag over his shoulder while Fryn doused the fire with a pile of sand and his boot.  
  
“What about me?” she asked, actually feeling fear creep cold into her stomach.  
  
Fryn’s eyes were wide and wild like a spooked horse. “You’re on your own, ranger,” he said thinly. “Who knows? Maybe Jarl Ravencrone will send out someone to find you.” His voice held the semblance of a mock, but terror easily overrode his sneer.  
  
And that was it. Fryn and the oaf left her in a dark and cold cave, still tied up like a prized hog.

“ _Damnit._ ”  
  
\---  
  
Sigyn hadn’t necessarily been _trained_ to be a ranger. There was no matter of apprenticeship or anything of the sort. It had been more of a case that she was desperately in need of money and had some experience catching her own game. Desperation had been her master, and her real training had been fighting off starvation for several months.  
  
Really, it didn’t need to be that way. Nord as she was, and hardy for it, she still had a mother in Cyrodiil. It would have just been a quick word of defeat and she might have been on the road back to Skingrad and safety in days. But that couldn’t be the case, or at least, she wouldn’t _let_ it be. She had a goal, and the only means to reach it was to stay in Skyrim until she either achieved it or dropped dead in the attempt. Becoming a ranger was one more step, and coming close to death just seemed like an obstacle in retrospect.  
  
She had _some_ help, though. It hadn’t been a totally independent pursuit. There had been friendly people along the way, or if not friendly, they were helpful. Hunters who had tricks to bagging the best game as quickly as possible, alchemists and wood elves who knew the best herbs and flowers to use, or what to eat when starvation set in, and warriors who had given her some kind of training, provided she had some coin to share with them.  
  
One moment came to mind, back when she was hunting in Riften. She had spent nearly a week with an older woman named Kay, a gifted hunter and herbalist. Kay had been very generous in her teachings, along with teaching Sigyn other crafts like weaving and sewing. On one night, when the rain made setting traps impossible, they huddled next to the dying hearth in Kay’s cabin and talked.  
  
Kay recalled being kidnapped by slavers as a child, going somewhere that she couldn’t remember. She was nearly thirteen then, father dead and mother separated from her. The slavers kept her in the back of a wagon, hands tied together so tightly that she had bruises on her wrists for almost a week.  
  
“How did you escape?” Sigyn had asked.  
  
The woman grinned, showing a nearly full smile, with one front tooth missing. “Sawed that rope right off of me with only my teeth. Lost one in the process. I tasted rope until I got my hands on some wine.”  
  
Sigyn thought of that now, staring down at her bindings. They hadn’t been particularly tight, but she couldn’t wiggle out of them. And she wasn’t particularly keen on losing a tooth, no matter how desperate she was.  
  
A jagged rock, however, was just as good.  
  
She worked her bindings against a rock near the dying embers, grimacing when she felt the rope burn against her skin. It took much longer than she wanted, until the embers were nearly out and the only light was the natural kind coming in from the cave entrance. Finally, the rope came loose and she was able to pull it apart, and then yank the rest off her wrists.  
  
Gingerly, she rubbed at spots that were undoubtedly red. In the little light she had, she cast a glance around the tiny cavern. Fryn and the oaf hadn’t left much, but there was an iron dagger on a table, which was better than nothing. One of the other bandits had taken her bow and quiver and ran off to Rorikstead, as far as she knew. She hoped he tripped and cracked his head off a rock, or suffered a fate like Ragnar the Red.  
  
It didn’t escape her that if there was a dragon out there, all she would have was a dagger and the clothes on her back. She had no armor or real weapons, no food, and no money. There was no way she could go back to her camp, as there would be nothing left to use anyway. With a sinking weight of dread deep in her abdomen, she wondered if she’d die in dragonfire or starve to death. Either way, the outcome seemed grim.  
  
But Sigyn Wolf-Caller would be damned if she was going to hole up in the cave until she withered to dust. She rolled up the sleeves of her dress to the elbows, gripped the dagger vise-tight in her right hand, and marched out of the cave into the silvery daylight. She was going to _survive,_ damnit, and she was going to do it _well._

 


End file.
